Hordjedtef had constantly warned Marai that his journey would be perious and could result in his death if he was not prepared. He knew that if a candidate died, it was usually by drowning or suffocation or even sheer terror in the Pit Ritual. Having been declared past that, Marai felt there was no further risk. Caressing the smooth edge of the box, the sojourner nodded he would stay. The memories in the crystalline components of the dark stone spoke to the stone in his brow.
When “the educated one” was summoned to this level of initiation, he would either allow himself to be strapped into this stone coffin or, if his level of mastery was great enough, have a matching lid lowered over himself as he lay there. The immense slab, as heavy as four oxen, was held at an angle above the box by ropes and balances so that a type of levering mechanism made it possible for men to lower and raise it. If a candidate was not prepared and carefully monitored he or she might go mad from the entombment or from the visions they received, once isolated and shut in total darkness. Twice before, even though at this level it was unlikely, he sensed the ritual had ended in death for some unfortunate souls.
In recent years, as insurance that those who embarked on the sacred journey would not return to bodies too long deprived of air, priests brought the candidates to an almost waking state from time to time during the three days. A priest might also be stationed in the room, in case undue trouble occurred, particularly during the initiations of higher ranking princes.
Marai knew Hordjedtef at least suspected he could complete the ritual with relative ease. If priests monitored him, it would only be to assure their senior that the sojourner had stayed in the other world.
The old man began to intone his lesson-chant again. Wserkaf spoke his part, then sent his desperate thoughts to the big, strange man named Marai.
Run, fool! Do you wish to die?
I won’t die here. Marai affirmed.
And you know this, how? The last thought issued from the younger priest.
Two of the priests fanned up the coals they had transferred to the brazier in the room. Sparks whirled and crackled up as dream incense of lotus and bits of cinnamon coated twine were cast onto the embers. A thin-walled alabaster beaker, filled with pure liquid, was set on the fire to heat slightly. After that it was placed on a lapis lazuli platter. For an instant, Marai regarded the carving on it. It was a solar disc with wings folder forward and wrapped around the body of the vessel. This was the image of the soul of sun and sun of soul taking flight. Everyone in the tight little room grew blurry in Marai’s vision. The closeness and the smoke and the lack of food and drink had made him incredibly dizzy. One priest swayed, in a dancelike stupor while others took up the pat drum and sistrum, beating them rhythmically like a slowing heartbeat.
Marai felt himself swaying to the intoned rhythm, mouthing the ecstatic wordchants with the men as the smoke filled him. Naibe danced naked in his thoughts. She teased him with a fine linen veil, rubbing her breasts, her buttocks, her sweet mound against his face and throat. He shut his eyes tightly; a lonely sob of ecstasy and aching tears welling as he rubbed his arms and fought back his erection.
Hordjedtef nodded to a priest to pour a fine white powder, that glimmered in the firelight like falling stars into the alabaster cup, then follow it with a small amount of honey. A stick was inserted into the beaker and the contents were stirred. Marai focused his attention on the brew being prepared and on the shadows of the men dancing like living wall paintings in the glowing red of the braziers’ embers. He wanted to be with Naibe now; to make up for sneaking away without a farewell, to love her tenderly for hours, more gently than ever, until she lay awash with his seed and trembling like the whitest sand against that relentless ocean. He ached, clawing his own arms to make the vision stop. He knew his tears were streaking the dark paint on his face and he didn’t want anyone to see.
He isn’t going to let you out. Wserkaf protested silently before adding the next part of the invocation.
But you will. Marai sat upright after he rolled his legs into the temporary tomb. He looked up once more in a kind of awe, to see how the top slab was fixed, then took in the images of all of the faces surrounding him for a last time. The sojourner knew Wserkaf was vividly remembering his own journey in this stone box. This was the ritual where the inspector’s gift of touch-reading and instant trance had been conferred. The inspector was someone new, just as Naibe-Ellit a and Ariennu had said he was.
Wserkaf stared back, suddenly loosing the depth of his anxiety to Marai. He understood the meaning of a vision that interpreters and seers had never adequately explained. Marai was prepared for the visions, but Wserkaf knew other struggles would await him. The priesthood and perhaps the world he had come to know as he grew to manhood, wouldn’t be prepared for Marai if he lived through this test. Hordjedtef feared that the most, when he should have been rejoicing over the witness of the birth of a new god.
Fifteen years ago, when Wserkaf took his own ritual, he dreamt of a man who glowed like the sun being hammered up into a box. His peers had interpreted it as a powerful vision of Asar appearing as Ra: day and night encapsulating time. They also told him it was an image of his leaving the temple of Ra for the Temple of Djehuti. they had said the symbol of Set putting Asar in the box was just that, the passage of the sun dying each day. He hadn’t understood why something in his heart had denied what they had told him until now.
Who are you? The younger priest’s soul implored. His hands shook so much as he offered the tea for Marai to drink that he almost dropped the winged beaker. This was called “Ben”, or “What Then Is It”, a white powder dissolved in sweet water. In drinking this he would share a communion with the god Asar and become nourished by the Bread of Life. He would feel all of the death of his flesh and die to himself. Symbolically he would be Asar, hence the face full of green paint.
This mixture was different. If it was “Ben” at all, it was also full of poison.
Wserkaf knew it.
Marai knew it too. The sojourner sat like a meek peasant, only half-listening to the invocation and feigning his gratitude as the elder explained how the drink would calm any initial psychic discomfort over the actual entombment process. The white powder had become a bitter, green-tasting liquid that was laced with so much honey that it was hard to get down.
Old Hordjedtef urged Marai to swallow the shivery, galling substance...to suck the syrup lining the beaker and to make sure he got the sticky dregs as well.
Goddess...god...Wserkaf’s thoughts sighed in final frustration. There is nothing I can do now. Save yourself if you still think you know how. Wserkaf’s eyes drew stoically inward once again.
I have to make him believe he’s won. Marai explained. I will need you to be open to me, in case I need help. Go tell my wives what’s happened. Tell them to be ready to leave Ineb Hedj at a moment’s notice, before the old bastard can get his claws in them, then check on me when he’s stopped suspecting your treachery. He silently bid Wserkaf farewell.
The elder’s eyes were trained on him, as Marai returned the empty beaker and lay back, with his arms folded across his chest in the pose of the dead king, tightly fitting into what should have been an ample box. When Wserkaf and two of the priests unfastened the fat hemp ropes, the lid dropped quietly, but firmly into place. For a long time the priest’s spellbinding dirge went on, still audible, but faint as a whisper.
Be Aware of me, O God;
If you know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O God;
Of me it is said: “He who has died.”
Be Aware of me, O Ra;
If you know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O Ra;
Of me it is said: “He has been completely destroyed.”
Be Aware of me, O Djehut;
If you know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O Djehut;
Of me it is said: “He who rests alone.”
Be Aware of me, O Har-Sopd;
If y
ou know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O Har-Sopd;
Of me it is said: “Miserable One.”
Be Aware of me, O Dweller in the Netherworld;
If you know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O Dweller in the Netherworld;
Of me it is said: “He who wakes healthy.”
Be Aware of me, O Bull of the sky;
If you know me, I will know you.
Be Aware of me, O Bull of the sky;
Of me, it is said:”
This star of the Lower Sky.
The wording was at once beautiful and rapturous but the poison starting to move through him made the sojourner feel an almost instant heat throughout his body. Marai panted, but quickly realized the air in the box would be used up if he continued his rapid breathing. He was scaring himself. The old man would win. His eyes felt unfocused, dry and cracked. Sand clogged his throat as he forced his breath to slow, despite the fever that had begun to rage in him. He chilled his heartbeat, wondering why Hordjedtef hadn’t realized the poison would never fully affect his body if its functions were almost stopped.
Take a lesson from sweetest Naibe...Woman, you taught me I can escape death he whispered aloud, sensing his own breath was fogging the inner lid of the rock slab over his body. I believe you. I believe you, my goddess!
The tea was supposed to be a relaxant that prompted visions, but this mixture wasn’t the same. The old man had made it special for him “stronger, to account for his massive form” he told the other priests who had seen him grinding the herbs together earlier in the day.
The effect of the original drug was meant to fade in a few hours. Anyone who drank it could still function enough to drink more, if needed, during the several risings to conciousness, even though they wouldn’t remember waking. The drink was reserved for kings who might not be skilled enough to undertake a prolonged trance naturally were closely monitored by attending priests, the whole seventy-two hour process could become a way of implanting false prophecy. The elder had done this with ease. Through this skilled manipulation of the throne, Hordjedtef and others like him had been able to rule the Two Lands without ever needing to wear the red and white crown. Only Hordjedtef and his gods knew how much, if any, of the thought-opening herb had been used.
He lives...your servant lives...
There was something else in it...a lot of something else, which had started to cramp his gut and make it feel like it was full of tumbleweeds. His hands and arms began to jerk and spasm violently.
I have gone up in Pe to the Souls of Pe,
I am girt with the girdle of Heru,
I am clad with the garment of Djehut,
Aset is before me and Nebt-Het is behind me,
Wepwawet opens a way for me,
Shu lifts me up,
the Souls of On set up a stariway for me
in order to reach the Above,
and Nut puts her hand on me
just as she did for Asar on the day when he died
Demonic clawed hands were ripping out his throat, making it explode into clouds of red dust made of his dried and powdered blood.
You go, this sojourner goes...
Waves of freezing/boiling agony swept through him. Marai fought to stay within his misery as he felt the involuntary lurch of his spirit pulling out of the confusion. He couldn’t allow fear to overtake him the way it had taken his precious Naibe. He was dangling over the well. The roar of empty space formed beneath him. He was no longer in the tomb, he was in a vaulted cave, hanging upside down by one leg with his arms bound behind him like the hanging man
The doors of the horizon open themselves,
the bolts slide...
A roaring filled his ears. Was that blood pouring from his burst open head, or was it just sweat rolling on his painted face. The ordinary turned on him and terrified him. Seventy-two hours of struggling to remain in relaxed control of his body and the visions churned out of it from his past, present and future might kill him after all, he thought. Then, with horror, he realized was that if he slowed down his body functions the progress of the poison would also slow, the damage would be greater, and he would be in wide-awake agony for however long it took him to eventually weaken enough that he wouold die like a used up old and very mortal man.
They won’t be checking on me. They’re going to let me rot. he gasped in newly realized horror.
May you allow this wise one to seize the Cool region...
standing over the places of the first ocean...
Suddenly he was upright and burning in cold blue fire as he straddled the well over the void and noticed the stars were waves.
One false step...Marai longed for the coolness of Deka’s hands on his hot brow. They could calm the drug...MaMa, my unsung one MaMa... MaMa He sweated and groaned a sob, remembering how even the strongest man called out to his mother and the mother of all creation as they breathed their last. This wasn’t his last breath yet, but it might come soon. The Children’s stone had grown. It filled and stiffened his entire body, freezing him in a shivering, icy spiderweb. He knew the dying process had begun.
Thou art become spirit...
The bull-spirit of Bakha transformed into the Divine Apis roared from his body like a whirlwind, in its anxiety to be free of the torment. Marai looked back at the box and panicked when he saw the priests leaving the room. He knew he wouldn’t be able to return to himself. He had died. He saw his body rot to dust in an instant and heard Hordjedtef cackling in the distance like a crazed water hen.
Something pleasant...Perceive something pleasant...
The child voice in his brow suddenly urged him. Ariennu’s ranging form spread itself out eagerly for him on the lid of the box. Her open thighs flashed the entrance, as surely as the script he had penned, and her body arched in desire to the fading chant of the primeval ocean. He dove into her, feeling her hot wetness seize his choking agony and calm it. His thoughts raced to his apartment, but bounced back at him like mad echoes, until he rose to the place where the pain and the terror almost overwhelmed him.
Oh, you’re good, old man...shielded me from my own... he gagged, realizing how skillfully the drug had been prepared. His fists tightened, beating weakly on the inside of the lid, until his thoughts formed the waiting boat on the ocean of stars. The blast of cool air tore at his hair and buoyed him up. Relax, Marai. He told himself, refocusing on the gentle moving of his breath. This is not real. He can’t beat you, if you don’t accept defeat. His heart slowed, relaxation flooding his being and flowing out to the parts the poison had numbed. Relief and gentle, suspended sleep swept though him. For now, he was victorious.
A spinning object caught his upper thoughts. The crystal, shaped like one of the Eternal Houses, drew nearer, until it settled about his head. When it had, it grew to enclose his chest, and finally his entire body, blocking out all evil with the purity of its shape. A sensation of weightlessness he had felt only in the sleep pod surrounded him. Visions began sifting through the shape, bending inside him, and streaming out of the other side of his body in rainbow rays, as if he had grown large enough to incorporate all of life and time itself in his heart.
Wserkaf was taking a late supper in Hordjedtef’s house, when Marai’s will encompassed it. A fine meal had been set.
He who wakes healthy
Good wine was served. A few dancers and musicians had been hired for the entertainment of all who had assisted in the demise of the wretched Akkad usurper of Maat. A face Marai had seen etched in stone was there, seated in his white marble chair with his indigo and gold striped nemes on his head. His retainers and a couple of young concubines lounged about, filling the rest of the plaza. Despite the king’s joy in the defeat of this foe he had never met, the weight of the kingdom of the Two Lands lined his otherwise plump cheeks and creased his aging brow. He didn’t seem larger than life, in reality, or as heroic and godly as he was depicted in stone. He was still quite a handsome man, but he seemed no mor
e spectacular than any other rich, middle-aged man. He looked quite tired and a little drunk.
Marai had overheard the gossip, during his stay in Hordjedtef’s house and even before when he lived and worked in Kina-Ahna, that the king needed to be half-drunk in order to rest at all. A spell of urgency possessed him, due to the tragedies in his life. Djehuti was wise uncle to the gods. Hordjedtef had been a very bright child of old, long dead Khufu. King Menkaure genuinely looked up to his “wise uncle”.
In Naibe’s nightmare of him, she saw him lying dead and the wretched men celebrating his defeat...of how they would go on, but scattered and of how that fear had nearly ended her...but not because she couldn’t live without him. All of the women were strong enough to survive and even flourish. Her beloved gone, she would simply not want to remain alive.
Naibe, beloved, I love you...know you are my goddess walking once more in earth. If I have died, go on and do what you must. Do not fail of grieving on my account. You showed me once how wrong it was for me to grieve my bride Ilara...Do not weep for me too long. he whispered.
Wserkaf looked like an unfortunate fly trapped in sticky sap. He was clearly not celebrating any of the events and drinking far too much. Soon enough, he feigned dizziness from the wine and fatigue from the day. He stated he felt nauseous and made his way outside the cedar door of the High priest’s estate for fresher, quieter air.
Wse...Wseriri Marai attempted the name of power from the depth of his fear and agony.
Gods...You live! The inspector sighed, bowing his head. He projected his own thought into Marai’s sheltered vision.
Marai sat up easily, in spirit, and faced him.
How by all the gods could you defeat that? The priest trembled, thinking about his vision of long ago again, and knowing this vision was exactly what he had seen fifteen years earlier.
Resting...in stone... Marai thought, feeling his conciousness fading from the vision even more. It was the poison taking greater effect. Drifting...dreaming...
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